Jeff Crook - The Thieves’ Guild

Across the way, the door of the hut opened, and a man exited, already cringing and fawning, a lantern dangling from his scrawny fist. As he drew near, there was a smell about him that made even the Dark Knight’s nose wrinkle in disgust. The man reeked of his job, even though the ground had been frozen for two months and he hadn’t buried a soul since the first day of the month of Darkember.

“Are we all here now?” the gravedigger fawned. “This way, m’lord and lady, this way. Hurry, we must. The sun is near to rising. A fine Yule morn, it’ll be. You’ll see it with the new light of the day.” The Dark Knight waved the man on, dropping in behind him. Mistress Jenna walked at his side.

“This had better not be a fool’s errand, Kinsaid,” she whispered.

The Lord Knight of Palanthas merely scowled and continued on his way. Their path led among the gravestones. Though the gravedigger had his lamp, the starlight reflecting on the snow provided plenty of light to see by. The gravedigger stopped beside a headstone not unlike the thirty or so others around it.

“This is the dwarf section,” the gravedigger whispered. “Many dwarves buried here, many generations of bones. Shhh, the sun! She comes!”

As though the thought of Nature’s orb frightened the man who bought his bread with the coins of the dead, he slunk behind the headstone, trembling.

“Found it, I did,” he hissed. “Yester morn. Even up here, we get news from the city, though few enough come this way, and those as do ain’t likely to return.” He cackled, much amused by his own cleverness. Jenna’s dark glance put a damper on his mirth. He continued, “So I knowed it was important, knowed who to call.”

Jenna turned to face the rising sun. The eastern sky had begun to gray. Far away across the deep bowl-shaped valley in which Palanthas lay, the sun crawled up behind the snow-capped Vingaard Mountains. She waited patiently, thankful for her boots, and wondered when was the last time she had watched a sunrise. She looked at the Dark Knight, and by his eternal scowl, she wondered if Sir Kinsaid ever had.

Finally, the sun appeared between two distant peaks, a watery orange globe promising little warmth. At its appearance, all eyes turned to the tall gravestone. Even in this light, they could see in inscription carved in the granite, though only Jenna could interpret the Dwarvish runes. They read:

Kharzog Hammerfell

Last of the Hammerfells of Palanthas

Faithful Friend

Slain in Battle

23 Fluergreen, 38 S. C.

Above this, in Elvish script that looked newly carved, were the words:

Even thirty generations is not too long to wait, old friend.

Set into the solid granite between the Elvish and the Dwarvish script was an oval stone as large as a goose’s egg. Even in the dim light, its beauty was unmistakable. Translucent as the finest porcelain, gleaming with rainbows of color more glorious than mother of pearl, it was an opal beyond dreams of dwarven avarice.

The first rays of the newly risen sun struck the Founderstone, and a glowing, pinkish light welled forth. With a brilliant flash, a light like a star erupted from the stone. Shimmering cascades of sparks fell about the waterchers’ feet and spilled across the snow. A gasp of awe and wonder escaped the three visitors, spellbound by the sight. A quiet music filled the air, like water leaping over stones.

“We thought the Founderstone beyond the reach of any thief,” Sir Kinsaid whispered as he gazed at it. “When it disappeared three days ago, we believed it was gone forever-only to find it here, decorating the grave of some forgotten dwarf.”

“Not just any dwarf,” Jenna said, an unwanted smile on her face. “Obviously not forgotten.”

“Thorn Knights tried to remove it yesterday, after we were alerted to its discovery,” Sir Kinsaid continued.

“A fine reward it should fetch!” the gravedigger interjected hopefully.

“As you can see, they failed. They say it is affixed with sovereign glue. We hoped you might be able to free it,” the Dark Knight said. “There would be a reward.”

Jenna thoughtfully fingered the items and belongings in her pockets, eyeing the beautiful stone as its light flowed about her feet. In one pocket, her hand closed around a vial of universal solvent, the only known counteragent to magical sovereign glue.

Thinking it over, she shook her head. “It is beyond my power,” Mistress Jenna said with a shrug. Sir Kinsaid turned away. Without a word of thanks, he stalked away, his cloak brushing the snow from the top of a nearby tombstone.

Jenna watched him go, then returned her gaze to the Founderstone. “I can think of no better place for it, l’phae Tanthalas lu’ro, ” she whispered.